


between the devil and the deep blue sea

by south_like_sherman



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: ? - Freeform, ??? i guess alex is????, Alex is a Merman, Alternate Universe, Beaches, Borderline Poetry, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mermaids, Metaphors, Ocean, Poetry, Roses, Sea Monsters, bc come on it's me, fffffffff, honestly what am I doing, i think, john is human alex is not that's what you gotta know, merman, or - Freeform, sigh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 17:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10702104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/south_like_sherman/pseuds/south_like_sherman
Summary: "He sees a boy on the edge of a cliff, on a shore. (A metaphorical cliff, maybe. A literal cliff. What's the difference? Aren't they all on a cliff?) (Tick tock, the clock's shattered. A wake up call: rock crumbles.) A boy who breathes smoke and drinks the sky, who fills his lungs with blue while Alex fills his with salt. A boy with stars in his palm, branded into his cheeks, his shoulders, his heart. And suddenly, the shore's a barrier."oralex is a merman??? just take it idk i'm sorry





	between the devil and the deep blue sea

This is a story. An old story, a new story. An impossible story. This has happened before, this is happening now. This will happen again. A worry for another their time, dear boy. Our story.

Listen. Listen, to the waves. Let salt fill your lungs, let gulls circle your wilting body, let yourself melt, let the sea claim your flesh, shatter the clock and—listen. The waves are telling a story.

**i**

So the shore's a barrier. So many poems, a sweetheart clutches at her boy clad in camouflage and gunpowder, and the beach is a golden field of reunited lovers. And they're all smiling, all their tears are blurred with kisses and—and the shore's a barrier.

Alex runs his tongue across his gleaming white teeth and wonders if he can shred himself on them—after all, they work well enough for humans. For mortals. (He's not human. Sometimes he forgets, has to remind himself. He's not human.)

He sees a boy on the edge of a cliff, on a shore. (A metaphorical cliff, maybe. A literal cliff. What's the difference? Aren't they all on a cliff?) (Tick tock, the clock's shattered. A wake up call: rock crumbles.) A boy who breathes smoke and drinks the sky, who fills his lungs with blue while Alex fills his with salt. A boy with stars in his palm, branded into his cheeks, his shoulders, his heart. And suddenly, the shore's a barrier.

His name's John, and he's lovely. He tastes of air, not salt, tastes of clouds and liquid starlight and Alex thinks he can drink him, can slit open his wrists and nuzzle his sharp, shrapnel teeth into shredded skin. He wants to, but—but he can't. Because John's not like him, John's not—John's human, achingly so. It practically oozes out of his pores, Alex can smell it. The raw, unadulterated sweetness of humanity that flows through his veins. Fragile. Breakable.

And John scowls, yanks his arm away. Tells him to stop being a prick, that humanity doesn't define him, and that almost makes Alex laugh. Because he says it like humanity's bad, like it's a source of shame to call himself one of them. He doesn't know, doesn't see. Humans are lovely, are ugly. Curious and new and whole and so fucking rude, always holding their heart so high above their head and calling themselves brave.

But, Alex supposes—John's right, in a way. He's different, because Alex has never met a human who speaks to him with such a flat, harsh tone, who drags his heart along the ground and lets it collect dust while his head collects anger.

It's funny how one of them will have to die for them to be together, because—John can't breathe underwater, Alex can't walk on land and—the shore's a barrier. But they make do with whatever they can get, stolen kisses and whispered promises taken from the breath of other lovers that they both know neither can keep. It feels like every second they spend together is ripped away from someone else's heartbreak, and they've torn away only a few precious fragments of glass from the shattered clock and it's running out, they're running out of time.

**ii**

Here's an answer, and no one really knows the question. Lick salt off each other's lips and guess, because maybe it doesn't really matter and vague words grasping at empty air can be enough. Fingernails dug into tissue paper skin won't tear, flames won't burn if you try hard enough. The pursuit of happiness is a futile quest for both of them, and what's the question what the question what's the question—

Happiness is futile. Give him a scar, and Alex will call it a blessing. Give him a kiss and he's home, no questions asked. He hates the way the sea tastes of tears so he presses his lips to clouds instead, pretends vapour's solid until it melts away on his tongue.

John's tears start to taste of salt, and Alex wonders if he might've been better off in the sea because there's only so many years one can spend next to a star before the sky seems too far off. Let it go let it go let it go, think of a metaphor about why the sea and stars can never make it and come up blank. Erase the slate, his heart, his mind and— he's blank.

It's close enough when Alex is falling into the valleys of John's hips and gripping at his shoulder, thumbing at the tender skin over his eyes, pretending the empty space above the surface doesn't feel like damnation. He's blind. Well, he's not, but. Close enough.

**iii**

It doesn't work because John says he's never leaving and he's mortal, which doesn't make sense. His hair will turn silver, his bones will crumble and he'll fall apart, his John will fall apart, his boy, his rosebud boy will die. Because he's mortal, and Alex isn't.

A wake up call: Alex would rather his boy die with fire in his veins instead of dust in his heart.

Alex wants him to die while his skin still looks like glass, while his chest is still golden and warm. He doesn't want him to die. But he does, he does he does he does, Alex wants him to stay and it doesn't make sense because he can't quite explain it, because. There's not enough time.

Tick, tock. We're running, darling.

(The clock's broken.)

**iv**

Alex is dragging John behind him with fingers wrapped tight enough around his wrist to leave bruises, because he thinks they might be able to escape time if they run fast enough, because there's a light at the end, and it's lovely and glowing and warm and that has to be the answer, or the question or—just the sun in his eyes.

He's holding starlight in his mouth and he refuses to let his lips part in case some escapes, because he's selfish and it's his. His boy, his rosebud boy.

John's asking him a question. Is there an answer?

(They already know.)

**v**

His rosebud boy. Flowers wilt, salt crusts on petals. Maybe John's a flower, maybe he's a rose. He misses flowers. Salt and sky and sand, gold and copper and opals and sapphires, can jewels ever replace life?

Silver shrapnel smiles start to rust, it's a paradox it's a paradox it's a paradox. Pull his teeth out and pass for a person. Rub his scales till he's raw, maybe he can tear himself apart if he claws hard enough.

The bruises imprinted on John's wrist are purple and blue and yellow and blurred, and Alex likes to think they're rose petals, not finger prints. He's broken something lovely again.

The stories are getting shorter, it's not getting better and Alex is waiting and nothing's coming. Opening his arms, his mouth, letting the entire ocean fill his aching throat. (It's stupid, because. He can't drown if he's already dead.)

**vi**

There's a day where John comes, and Alex just doesn't. Where he lurks below the waves, lets his finger nails scrape against the surface and drown out John's cries because it's so easy to do that in water, isn't it?

A wake up call: John is human, and his voice can be drowned too.

There's a day when he just stops trying. When Alex waits for the shouts that are sure to come, two words put on loop, a reprise, and a song playing on repeat. It doesn't come because he's stopped trying, and—his lovely boy, his lovely, rosebud boy. He can't quite remember when the bud bloomed and when it wilted, but–his rosebud boy.

**vii**

There's glass in the sea. It doesn't cut him but he likes to think it does. Likes to think his body is a war zone, a landscape of craters and chasms, because that's how he feels. Torn apart. His heart is hanging from his sleeve, and his head feels like it's splitting in two because he can't think like this, he can't live like this, he can't love when it feels like his bones are shattering and it hurts to even open his eyes.

Sometimes he likes to go to the surface and pretend John's still waiting. Sometimes he thumbs at the veins along his cold, slippery wrist and wonder whether he can die if he tries hard enough. Sometimes it doesn't really matter.

He misses a boy with stars and bruises and roses, and it hurts. It's hole inside of him, a physical ache, and he wishes he could tear his heart apart.

**viii**

A boy comes down the beach, to the golden field of lovers. An old man. A young man. A man. (This has happened before, it's happening now. It's happening again.)

Alex doesn't see him, not yet but—he _feels_ him. A soft whisper in the current. A rose petal crusted in salt.

A boy, an old man with silver in his hair and starlight in his wake, with bones that move like liquid under his skin. An old man on the edge of a cliff, with skin stretched as fine as tissue paper. (A metaphorical cliff. A literal cliff.) (It's happening now.) He's going to fall apart.

His lips part, cracked and bruised and he says two words. On repeat, on loop, two words, his words. His voice is shattered.

Alex's hand breaks the surface, smashes glass, and he's dry and clean and new, and he thinks he's dying. Hopes. This is damnation.

There's no light at the end, just the sun. The old man crumbles, his heart is a wet, slippery mess, and—just the sun. The sun, and his boy.

His rosebud boy.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! comments and kudos keep me from spiralling into self hatred and doubt!!!! i need!!! help!!!! i love!!!!! all of you!!!!  
> um so yeah thanks again for reading tumblr is [here](https://the-girl-who-cried-ship.tumblr.com) if you wanna hmu there ;)  
> also i heard the phrase rosebud boy somewhere and i just can't get it outta my head? idk it just sounded so lovely to me yeah i know i'm dumb  
> have a great day!  
> validation is fun!
> 
> ~ Kinzie


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